Even in Death
by Secret-H
Summary: The Gods of yesterday live again, and again, and ad nauseam. Some wish for their past power, others for a life past 18. Hades has long since accepted his lot, and decided that if he has to go through adolescence every score, he's not taking it seriously. WIP.
1. Because Names are Important

**Please don't take this seriously. I have just had it for like two years, with only a little done, and I wanted to get it down before I lost the original. I doubt I will ever finish it. And the chapters are going to be pretty short & liable to change.**

****So anyway, All of the Gods that ever were ever exist, though I will not be getting into _all_ them, and they come and go as the amount of belief and faith in them rises or falls. They rarely ever simply stop existing, however; they simply get demoted. Like to High Schoolers, poor miserable bastards.  
>They can choose who they want to be birthed, their names, and histories they want, and then they live their life. By the time they are 15, they have probably all somehow migrated to the same place, and before they reach 21 they're dead. Don't feel to bad for them, however, it's the name of the game they choose to play, and usually their fault.<br>Hades, is the main character and protagonist in my story, merely because I like bad boys, and he doesn't seem like as much of a dick as he could be. I guess all the death keeps him sober. His name is still Hades in this one life, though it is pronounced to rhyme like 'shades'. He's probably OOC, but I kind of like him this way, both formal and ditzy, and he doesn't seem to think anything is wrong with it. He's a pretty reliable narrator, unless he zoned off missed something.  
>Hermes might figure in maybe slash because I like it.<strong>**

****Does this need a Disclaimer? It's not really owned by anybody. Would bible stories need one?****

* * *

><p>.<br>_cum grano salis  
><em>.

Call me Hades.

I have had many names during my existence, most of them set to suit the time period. Hades was the first, nonetheless, and as such, it holds a special place in my 'heart'. It is, in fact, the one I use at present, even if I pronounce it differently.

Names are important.

As a God of Death, more than anything else, it was my job to know all names of all living things. People simply were the most important at the time because they lie, even in death. Or perhaps, especially in death.

I am, however, no longer a major god, so knowing the names of everything and everyone is just rather creepy trivia. To entertain myself, I like to make up epithets for people I know. I find that, while not always mature or endearing, they are quite apropos in relevance to their character. I have taken to never speaking them anymore; they tend to have a habit of sticking. I am not entirely sure as to why.

Still, even though I am no longer as high in power as I once was, I am still a god, or higher power, or whatever euphemism is used. I _do_ know all names, and can pull off a little necromancy if I so felt the need. I often find myself in cemeteries, and enjoy visiting hospitals.

I try to be pleasant to the dying, whether they are aware of their fate or not.

These are old abilities, old habits that I take comfort in. It makes me feel ill at ease to think that I am developing new ones. I do not like to think that I am changing too much, but then, those of us who have ruled over death have always been different from the rest; more connected to certain aspects of…actuality than others.

I like to speak to the current 'death gods' in power, but I also speak to the current 'superpower'. This all encompassing 'God' that people like to argue about now is a rather good conversationalist when she is not being too grandfatherly. It's so evasive that I might as well be talking to myself, but he has never been to forthcoming with information. But we still talk. She is a very good debater and wonderfully benevolent even without an actual stable form. Its 'angels', on the other hand, are not half so interesting.

Except for the other guy.

But we only meet up when I feel like going out on the town. Not too often. While he knows how to have a good time, one will invariably end up piss drunk, and hangovers are always worse when one has been drinking with the devil.

Also, the underworld, or 'hell' as they call it now, has really lost much of its ambience.

.  
><em>with a grain of salt<br>_.


	2. Because I Dislike Her

.  
><em>in media res<em>  
>.<p>

"Mr. Deth," Mrs. Conners calls again, though I have yet to react. Perhaps if I act as though I cannot hear her she will turn her attention elsewhere. Or not. This _is_ Mrs. Conners. Giving up would be defeat in her mind. Moreover, she is already getting off her perch on the front of her desk so she can tap her foot. I harbor a great dislike the shoes she wears. They _clop _obnoxiously when she walks, so that one always know when she's coming down the hallway.

"Mr. Deth," _tap, tap, tap, _"this is AP World History. That means, not any of your other classes. That means that despite the fact that your other teachers are resigned to let you simply sit around during class, I have requirements of your cooperation." _Wonderbar_. Now, she is having one of her 'that means' tirades. The damned things are mind melting and they happen much too often. Not necessarily always to me, but I do seem to be her favorite recipient. The longest ever has lasted all 30 mintutes of half of a class. Auspiciously, class is almost over.

"That means I expect some kind of participation from you. The connotations of participation includes answering questions when you are called upon. Do you know what that means?"

No, Mrs. Conners, I do not know what _that means_. Nor do I care what _that means_. Nor do I know why you countinue to do this. Despite the fact that that you try so very hard, I have yet to see the apparent error of my ways. Indeed, I am sitting here doing the same thing I do every day: scouring my mind for a suitable nickname for you.

It is especially hard. Your long winded, yet determined ways notwithstanding, I find you rather bland as a singular person. With just below average height, shoulder length dirty blonde hair (usually kept in a pony tail,) and flat blue eyes, you are, while moderately attractive, nothing particularly special. If you had had hair of a more golden hue or eyes of a more intense blue, I might have called you an All-American-Girl. Not that it matters for that name is already taken by one Buffy Smith. She is one of Heather's satellites if you didn't know; it is sometimes hard to remember any of them as an individual.

Fortunately for you, I do not like to repeat. Names are only numbered when the overall character is the same, so take it to heart, Mrs. Conners. While I find you irritating, you are no Buffy Smi-

"Mr. Deth," Mrs. Conners exclaims, cracking her 15 inch ruler on my desk. Technically, it used to be a yard stick, but that was before the noodle incident. "I would appreciate it if you paid attention when I spoke to you."

And while I had not noticed you walking towards my far-off desk, a _faux pas_ on my part, I would appreciate you not swinging your weapon of mass instruction in my face.

"Do you need your periodic visit to our fair principle already? I'm sure waiting another week or two of wait wouldn't hurt."

Really. Rulers are for measuring, not for tempting ones self into smacking students with. There is no need to be nasty.

"No, Miss Conners," I say.

"Then do you know the answer to the question?" Mrs. Conners is smiling now. It is minute, but it is there. She really does enjoy winning in the worst kind of way. It is an annoying trait, but one that defines her in the most efficient sort of way.

"Yes, Miss Conner." Not that wanting to win is bad, I see it as a form of ambition. Everyone needs a little, and I suppose, to not have it is rather unhealthy in its own way. Mrs. Conners, however, is as distinctly ill about victory as she is about loss. Not that she does not hold that hint of condescension in most aspects of her life. Mrs. Conners, the Condescending Conquer. Hmm.

_Snicker, Snicker. _

Mrs. Conners' smile appears to be bleeding off her face, and I realize that I have drifted off. I do that fairly often. It is _molestus_. The humor quickly dies off, and the class is, for one of the few times ever, at rapt attention.

"Would you like to share it with the rest of us?" Mrs. Conners very nearly growls out, her teeth gritted. Mrs. Conners the condescending cougar, conquer? No, cougar has certain connotations now, doesn't it? Mrs. Conners' Husband is older than her, well enough off, and scheduled to die in his sleep, a widow. How nice? He is very much in love with his wife, and she the same. No 'cougar' then. I like the alliteration, though.

I am about to bring myself to answer when the bell rings.

Strangely enough, no one moves as they countinue to watch us. I sigh, allowing my mouth to close, and picking up the belongings I never got around to unpacking. As if my actions were all the signal the others needed, children shoot up and move with, what seems to me unnecessary haste, towards the doorway. I walk from the room.

Mrs. Conners watches me.

._  
>into the midst of things<br>_.


	3. Because Mary is a Euphemism for Boring

.  
><em>festina lente<em>  
>.<p>

Mary runs into me as I make my way down the hall, destination: locker. I suspect that it was on purpose for I have never know her to be uncoordinated and her expression easily conveys her ire.

Mrs. Conners may not be her favorite teacher, but Mary devolves enjoyment of knowledge where ever it may come from. Or in this case, however accurate it may be. I, myself, have never seen why she works so hard. It is pointless, for multiple reasons.

"What is wrong with you?" She asks, her normally dull grey eyes flashing silver.

For one thing, she already knows most of all that we are learning at this point in time.

"I mean, really."

She also knows the_ truth_ of most of all that we are learning at this pointing in time.

"All you had to do was answer the question." Her voice is rising.

For an other, we will not be living too far past high school.

"It's not as though you weren't there."

In any case, even if, perchance, I had the opportunity to continue my life past the current drinking age, like many subjects taught generalized in school, World History would be completely-

"Are you even listening to me!" Mary lets out a shriek much too close to my ear, and just like that, I have lost my train of thought.

"Yeah." I answer, because it seems as though I should, but she scoffs at me.

"You always make things that much more difficult, and you ruin it for the rest of us."

Mary picks up on her tangent again, still following me. She is single minded when she gets on a topic, and finds a reason to do this very frequently. It is somewhat of an annoyance, but one does get used to it after a few millennia.

Now that I think about it, Mary shares the deep need to be correct with Mrs. Conner's. Or would that be the other way around. Perhaps..?

Mary taps her foot as I stop in front of my locker, another wont she shares with The Condescending Conqueror. I turn my padlock slowly, this way and that, and then this way again; I only want to have to do this once. I replace my History textbook with for my science book and binder. We probably won't need it class today, but I refuse to associate at all with the institute of supposed 'education' after the last bell rings. There is no such thing as _home_work, and I take my notes whenever I can.

"Well, Hades." Mary demands, with a certain amount of disgust in her voice. She hates the fact that I use the name Hades as habitually as I do. Apparently it is obvious, but I find it more than a little surreal to imagine that any sane person would come to the conclusion of me being a Greek god. Nor do I think that she should regale me with her personal feelings on the matter when she chose an alias like Mary: the most tepid and trite female name ever.

"Well, what?" I more or less state back, as I straighten. I close my locker door, and it is loud in the now empty halls.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" Mary looks less angry, and more agitated. I say nothing and she continues. "You already draw enough attention to yourself as is. And don't raise your eyebrow at me with that blank expression of yours. It may work on others, but I am neither intimidated nor stupid."

I allow myself to cut in, before she can continue.

"Well, that goes without saying," I say. "As the goddess of knowledge, or wisdom or smart, or whatever, one would expect one such as your self to…" I sigh, trailing off. I do not really feel like continuing. Conversation can be strenuous. I don't understand how people do this so effortlessly. "Did you have a point you wanted to get to, or did you just feel the overpowering need to bitch at me?"

There, my quota of words for the day. Luckily, after my lunch period, no one is expecting more than grunts from me.

"The point is," Mary says, glaring jagged metal-edged rulers at me, " that all you have to do is behave. It's not exactly rocket science. And if you can't help yourself, we can take this to Paul."

Suddenly, I feel agitated, and want to curse Mary for doing this to me. Emotions are _magnus molestus_.

"Paul," I drawl the name, dragging in out, "can do nothing. Even on Olympus he could do nothing, and this is nowhere near Olympus. I do not answer to him or you."

I turn away and stalk towards the stairwell. "So you can tell _Backpfeifengesicht_ to suck it."

_Futuet cunnus! _Probably not the most accurate description of Mary in all her virtuous glory, but now I've gone over my daily quota, and I will probably be tetchy for the rest of the day.

"You go, girl!" A voice calls from behind us. "Fight the power. Don't let the man keep you down."

Mercutio attracts much more attention than me, not that, despite what Mary says, most people do_ not_ attract more attention than me. A controversy of brown skinned, towheaded, purple-eyes, and sunny disposition came swaggering towards us. Because Mercutio did not turn, he swirled. While other people pointed, he thrust his finger. So it stands to reason that instead of walking, he swaggered.

He swaggers right up to us and drapes himself around Mary making her knees bend beneath the weight.

"Do not encourage him." Mary says, shoving Mercutio away from her body. He almost falls down the stairs, but manages maneuver the ungainly movement into a…not ungainly movement? He does not fall down the stairs at any rate, which is fortunate for him, because I would not have caught him. "It's most likely because of your influence that he doesn't even pretend to work in class anymore. No, now he spends all of his time making up stupid monikers."

"What the hell's a moniker?" Mercutio asks cheerfully. Not that he does not already know. This is not the first time that we have had this confrontation. Mercutio, however, takes a sadistic enjoyment in a number of things, one of them being annoying Mary.

"You _know_ what a moniker is, and _I_ know that the only reason you ask is to irritate me." Mary says, but somehow, that does not stop her from being irritated.

"Seriously," Mercutio says with his patent smile; one that can mean anything from mischief, to a swiftly approaching death. I can easily see that he is trying to start something, but I theorize that intelligence has significantly less value when one does not have certain other proficiencies, such as some kind of sense of humor. "I am at a loss as to what a moniker is. If you would deem one lesser such as I worthy, mayhaps you would impart your all knowing, uh, knowledge onto myself?"

"You know what a monikers is!" Mary voice goes straight to shouting, as she stops on the second level of the stairs.

"No, I don't," Mercutio returns easily. He stops a step below her, but he still comes off as taller.

"You do, too."

And there we are.

I am now at the bottom of the last staircase looking up at them. Sometimes I find it pressing to believe that Mary falls for that ploy. Continuously. The argument had regressed to an exchange of "do not's" and "do too's". It might have been amusing if my mood was not degenerated from earlier. As it stands, I am willing to speak again, if only to have them cease.

"As interesting as this is," I begin, cutting them off abruptly. Mercutio gives me what could only be called a pout, but I continue. "I would like to be get to eat my lunch. Preferably, even lukewarm."

"That wouldn't be a problem if it didn't take you five minutes to use your locker." Mary says, in what I suppose would be a patronizing manner, if she did not look so stricken by her own behavior. Mary's face is turned away and her head held noticeably high, but the blush she appears to be attempting to hide is still evident as she removes herself from around Mercutio.

She exits the stairwell briskly, leaving us in silence.

There is a pause, the door slowly closing behind her, before Mercutio jumps down from the top of the staircase, landing gracefully and with unnatural gentleness on one leg. He catches the handle of the door, before it can close completely, and turns back towards me, giving a lavish bow.

He looks up grinning.

As our eyes meet, I think of the 'relationship' between us and the rest of the neo-gods of the Mediterranean. I get on best with him and Harmony, though Harmony and I seldom speak to one another. It is not as though any of us gods of yester-millennia can successfully hold any delusions of why we are together. It is our fate to meet, and our destiny to die.

There is, however, a distinct difference between the two. This is something that both Mercutio and I agree upon; the source of our budding bond. Would he follow me if I were to leave?

Perchance.

By now Mercutio has cocked an eyebrow at me in question, his head tilted to the side. I realise that I have been still for a significant amount of time, and by now the lunch line will be trailing down the walls of the cafeteria. Mercutio offers his arm, and I push melancholy thoughts from my mind.

I move towards him, and elbows linked, we exit the stairwell.

.  
><em>make haste slowly<em>  
>.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Hades Schedule as it exists now…<strong>  
><strong>Period:1 Hnr. German III<strong>  
><strong>Period:2 Concert Band<strong>  
><strong>Period:3 AP Calculus<strong>  
><strong>Period:4 AP World History<strong>  
><strong>Period:5 Lunch<strong>  
><strong>Period:6 Hnr. Chem. <strong>  
><strong>Period:7 Bake Shop<strong>  
><strong>Period:8 English<strong>

**Anything in this fic may change at anytime. If I keep on it at all.  
>I won't explain the words that are in different languages, but I will say that, except for the first and last, they won't always be in latin. <strong>


	4. Because I do have a Life

_._  
><em>post meridian<em>  
><em>. <em>

I have never understood the point of complaining about school lunches. If they are so horrible, then why not simply bring something from home.

I do not particularly mind the food that our school supplies us with. Most of it is not more than adequate, but then most of those I have attended school with have never lived though the great depression; I would take B-grade pizza over starving, (though never to death,) any week day.

That being said, the pizza could use more sauce and less oil. I think of getting some napkins as I move towards my table. There in too much grease on this for something that is not fast food.

As one might imagine, we gods of yesterday do not interact overly much. We never could stand each other. Also, the cliques of Devonsville High School tend to be very defined, to the point of movie stereotype. That is more our fault than anything else. One cannot just sit anywhere that is a free at our school. Barring that they are Mercutio, of course.

Mercutio is the Renaissance Man in the way that he is able to do anything, and enjoys being in an amicable relationship with everyone, with the exception of Mary, _of course_.

He does track and fields, plays the harp with Ciro in orchestra, dabbles in the chess club, and is an adequate hacker if his boast are to be believed. Mary also takes part in many extracurricular activities, which is the base of much of her strife with Mercutio. She never did forgive him for being such a flippant person and yet better than her at anything. Anything specifically being chess, music, or technology of any sort. And biology.

Of course.

The point being, he can sit where he feels the compulsion. However, he usually sits with me.

I occupy the same table everyday. It is one of the extra ones that would never be used if not for the few that eat alone. I seldom eat alone. Even if Mercutio is roaming the cafeteria, there is always Harmony.

Harmony is in show choir, so she does have 'friends' to sit with, but Lunch is our unofficial meeting time. We rarely speak to one another, Harmony and I. Ours is an amiable acquaintance expressed in presence. I do not ever regret getting hit by Francis's arrow, despite some of the unfortunate events that took place subsequently. There would have been no way for us to meet otherwise, and Harmony has long since become a good confident when I wish to speak of subjects that concern me.

In no instant, however, have we ever imagined returning to our former relationship unlike some of the others who managed to delude themselves that it was not a bad idea the first time.

Alas, those such as Heather and Paul always follow the same rota. _Backpfeifengesicht_ is a bombastic, adulterous, jerkass after all and Desperate Housewife plays the jealous girlfriend quite well.

He cheats, she often misplaces her vengeance, and everyone else is collateral damage.

But I digress. Harmony is already seated after I at last retrieve my food. Mercutio is there, as well. He had disappeared as soon as he had walked me to the lunch line, and yet he had today's heated meal, an Arizona that I know that he did not have the money for, and cookies that were not being served. He is speaking gregariously to Harmony, who is not paying him the slightest bit of attention. She does catch sight of me, but looks away too quickly. _Molestus_.

As I take my seat, Mercutio turns his attention to his food. So he does not know what is going on, but he does know that it is important. _Magnus molestus_. I begin eating my food, and while the silence is unusual given Mercutio's presence, silences there is. I am under the impression that he is feeling awkward, yet he does nothing about it. I am nearly finished with my pizza when it is broken.

"Hades," Harmony says, and Mercutio looks up. He knows Harmony does not speak to me frivolously as we are both comfortable in our silence so that neither of us would end it, and the only thing that Mercutio loves more than acquiring miscellaneous that do not belong to him is gossip. In fact, the entire 'book club' that he, Esther, and Mona orchestrate meets at least once a week to chinwag about the latest run and rumor.

"Hmm." I continue eating. She knows that I am listening.

"Paul wishes to speak to you." I swallow.

"When?" I wonder, leaning down for another bite.

"Tonight," she says. "12." I glance at her with the smallest of frowns.

"No." I feel no compulsion to explain, but Mercutio is instantly at attention.

"Why not?" He asks, partially in worry as much as curiosity. One could easily conclude that _Backpfeifengesicht_ and I have never been on the best of terms. The only time we are able to inhabit the same space is when Kai is there to act as a buffer. Until Paul mentions that damn ukulele that Kai absolutely loves to occupy himself with. They usually forget me during their squabbles, at which point I leave. But I always, at least, show up.

"Busy." I answer, frowning at the cooling slice wrapped in my napkin. With a sigh I place it down. I always eat the crust first and the cheese that the school utilizes is disgusting when cold; even the abundant amounts of oil has started to harden. I take one of Mercutio's cookies. They are pleasantly warm.

"Doing what?" Harmony asks with a frown.

"Stuff." I state, munching slowly on the cookie. It is chocolate chip.

"Since when have you done things after school?" Mercutio looks rather excited.

"Ever." I swallow and reach for another, but Mercutio snatches them away. I frown at him.

"No more cookies, until you tell me what you're doing." He says, and I contemplate just taking them. I stare at the cookies for sometime.

"_He _is visiting" I say, and take the cookies back. I think I deserve all of them.

Harmony does not know of whom I speak, though she does not react, but Mercutio does. He appears surprised for a moment, but he does not reach for a cookie, which is fortunate for I would not have given him one.

"Welllll." He drawls, giving me a rakish grin. "Have fun then."

Harmony looks at me as a stand up to leave the cafeteria. She says nothing at all as I gather my things and is unfettered by the fact that she does not understand what I was speaking of. Or whom, in this case. I image that even if she was aware, she would have made Mercutio explaining everything to Paul anyway. Not that he will.

I take the cookies with me.

_._  
><em>after midday<em>  
><em>. <em>


	5. Because He Owns Us All

**MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM MMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooo oooooooooooo!1!1111! I actually had this done for a while, I just lost my notebook of relevant lati phrases and was hopping to find it. No such luck. Merry Christmahanakwazaka and Happy Holidays.**

* * *

><p>.<p>

_memento mori_  
>.<p>

It is hard to explain the all encompassing, tedious, inconvenience that it is to learn backwards. I have an understanding of the way the world works. I have a complete _comprehension _of the way the world works. Mr. Hodgingson does not. Nor do those who generate these ridiculous bound novels of false knowledge in some ill conceived effort to further pass on they're contrive 'facts' to the next generation.

Chemistry is _molestus_. Cooking is to a much greater degree more entertaining.

I will be the first to admit that I have no real skill for it. Baking is an unexpected gift of mine, one that rivals my ability of money making. Cooking, however, is quite beyond me. Ciro uses the analogy, "baking is to science, as cooking is to art." Even with my great dislike of chemistry, I must agree. Art has never been my forte. The few times that I have ever been able to accurately express what I wanted to, it was never with any great precision. Also, many were disturbed; most insisted I burn the canvas, and I was forced to see my on-and-off-again councilor. It was the first time my parents had readily agreed for me to go. Virginia did not look at it for more than a second before she threw it in her fire place and we baked some scones.

I never painted again, and am contented to say that I have yet to greatly disturb anyone with my experiments. Ms. Garcia asks that I not call them that, but I feel that experiment is the most accurate term for the resulting concoctions. I have yet to create comestible food. Or food at all.

Chef's I would be wonderful way to end the day. English is not.

And it is only English. No American Connections, Women's Lit, or Creative Writing. I take English 12, designed merely to create a credit. I do not dare try anything harder, the language changes too often for me to keep track of. As it is, I do no even bother keeping track of the class itself. It seems only moments after taking my seat that the bell rings, signaling the end of a day.

The class is out of their seat in seconds; there are no eager students in this room. The teacher beats us to the door.  
>***<p>

I am sure that my parents love me.

They do not always love their children, the new makers of gods of old. In the past, I have had parents who: disliked me, hated me, feared me. For the most part, the majority of the adults in my life have merely set out to tolerate my presence until I left home, and I have always left home. We never meet again. I doubt that they know or care of my death.

Thomas and Blair love me in their own bizarre way. I love them in my own faded way. We are contented with our lives. They would miss me if I were to leave. They will mourn me when I die. My parents are strange and caring people.

That being said, they are not the most overly responsible of people. They let me have my freedom, and trust me to behave, always come home and not kill anyone. These are reasonable limitation, so I stick to them. I also avoid arson, rape, most forms of violence, stealing and any other such activities that my compatriots would indulge in. I feel as though my parents would appreciate it. Perhaps it will make up for the time that I do not return.

It is close to midnight. I am walking to the park. My parents know I am out. But they know not to worry, even if they do not know why. There are few things of the night that can hurt me; I am acquainted with the rest.

I spot Him in the light of the street lamp. He is sitting on the bench and cannot be mistaken for anyone else. He is quite large; broad-shouldered and taller than Paul. His face is ageless and almost amorphous.

His eyelids are close the for the first moments that I see him, but they part as I draw near. He did not hear me for I made no sound. Nor does he see me. He simply knows, which is just as well. He does not have eyes.

His hair is smooth back, shining brightly white. One can barely tell where it ends and the skin begins. The only differences in the colour of His features come from the blackholes of his sockets, (his eyelids curve when he closes them, but the space is quite empty: empty and endless,) and the blue tinge of His lips and nose.

He is wearing black. He always wears black. His clothes are whatever He wants them to be, (though he favors suits,) and black. I cannot say, however, that it is His choice in garments that make him pale. He has never been more than the absolute purest of white.

I sit down on the bench, making sure that there is space between us, but almost immediately there is not. I know what He did, and we both know that it was a frivolous use of power, but neither of us say anything. We do not share glances; our gazes are straight into what should be darkness beyond the circle of light.

"We have missed you." He says. My hand is in His and He is massaging the palm with his fingers. I let him.

"You could not possibly," I say. "We barely ever see each other."

"We miss you." He states. There is no room for argument. "Bennie misses you. Seth misses you. The others miss you. We have missed you."

He does not say that He misses me. I would never expect it of Him. Bennie is the one that it closest to Him, yet if Bennie were to somehow fade, He would not mourn. There are many reasons why.

"Home is louder without your presence."

We all fade in the end.

"Come back." He says. It may have been many things, but it was not a command.

He is not capable of such heightened sentiment.

"No." I say.

He knows better.

"Very well," He says. And that would be that.

He has only recently started including Himself in groupings. I am pleased, however, that He and the others would also include me.

We are close; His body gives off no heat. I turn towards Him and stare into dual abysses. I remember when Bennie, whom Mercutio resembles a paler twin of, was curious as to what they contained. He, being as mild mannered as He was, allowed His first to stick a pen in. We were all understandably interested when it merely vanished into shadows, and reappeared no worse for wear, if a bit chilly.*

Only the inner areas of His physical being affects the temperature of His person in any way. He has never been able to alter this, just as He has never been able to give Himself eyes. Even as our lips meet, mine are cooler in the night air, despite appearances.

And then I open my mouth to His, and I feel it. The icy breath a burning cold that spreads through me.

I am pulled neatly into His lap.

I have missed this. This delicious taste; the feeling of His hands gripping my face; the press of His tongue, and His mouth stealing my breath. His fingers are blunt and smooth, but completely firm as they brush my jaw, flow down on my neck, and press against the skin of my hips not hidden by low hanging jeans.

His teeth are all slightly pointed. He is aware that I enjoy the pinch. He tugs and nibbles and caresses my body, and I sit through it all. It is not about submission but His efforts to give me as much pleasure as possible. My pleasure is His pleasure; vicariously is the only way he can live.

I move against Him, adulating with a thigh between mine, and already, it feels so good. My trysts with Mercutio cannot strive to contest this sense of completeness.

He is oldest and the focus; the wisest and the most essential. He is overpowering and overwhelming. I know I belong to Him even as any human could belong to me.

It is comfortable, a feeling of belonging.

.  
><em>remember death<em>  
>.<p>

*Bennie later took to throwing random objects into His eye, though He simply stopped reacting after a while.


End file.
